Mother’s Day Mishigos

As some of you already know, I have a Jewish mother. I can hear your snide snickers; go ahead and laugh. May you be cursed with one in your next lifetime. Or if I pay you enough, you can rent mine for the day. She’ll make you meshuganah in less than twenty-four hours: ten, is my educated guess – money back guaranteed.

Although I kvetch a lot about mom, she has taught me some essential suburban survival skills, like: how to beat that bitch at Macy’s – grabbing the last cashmere sweater on sale, how to avoid getting parking tickets by flirting with the meter man (in my case, maid!), and how to put on mascara, without smearing it. Granted, none of these skills will help me if I get stranded in a snowstorm or on a desert island; but in terms of daily life – they’re vital.

So I guess that at least once a year, I can thank her and show my appreciation by buying her a Mother’s Day gift. I honestly don’t have any issues with that; even though this holiday has become an opportunity for massive merchandising for mothers. Originally, however, Anna Jarvis created Mother’s Day simply as a day to honor mothers. I discovered that even Ms. Jarvis (who was never married, nor had any kids), soured on the crass commercialization that soiled her concept. And that was in the twenties! Can you imagine if she were alive today? She’d undoubtedly be appalled. In fact, Ms. Jarvis and her sister, Ellsinore – spent their inheritance campaigning against the holiday. Unfortunately, both died in poverty and her Mother’s Day “monster” continued to grow – taking on a life of its own.

So I go along with this parental propaganda, just like millions of other sheep – baaing at the blatant retail displays of cards, candy and crap. Because sometimes it’s easier to just follow the herd. I usually take the time to buy mom some jewelry or clothing – but this year I was crunched for cash and time. I covered myself by telling her in advance, and she seemed fine with my honest admission. “Honey, it’s the thought that counts,” she said to me. Right! I know my mother and she likes the “thought” to arrive with a nice gift.

Therefore I decided, in lieu of a prezzie – that I’d choose the most appealing and appropriate card that I could find. Foolish me. I didn’t realize that this task would take almost as long to accomplish – as it did for her to give birth to me. I like to shop locally, and can usually find what I need in my small town. But not always. This was one of those times. I swear, I went from store to store, searching in vain for the perfect Mother’s Day card – and never found it. And it wasn’t for lack of goods. Everywhere I went, I saw a veritable mountain of Mother’s Day cards; but they either seemed too schlocky, stupid or sentimental.

Time was running out: I had to find the damn card and mail it that day – or it wouldn’t arrive on time. Finally, just when it appeared that I’d have to admit defeat – I found a card. Unfortunately, it didn’t meet most of my creative card criteria – but I was a desperate woman. Thankfully, the card wasn’t too cloying or cute, and it’d have to do. So I sent it to mom and hoped for the best. When I called her yesterday to wish her a happy Mother’s Day – she started laughing. “I loved the card!,” she said. I was both startled and surprised by her positive response. “What did you like about it,” I asked her. “The song!,” she said. What song?, I thought to myself; perhaps mom has finally “lost it.” Suddenly, I heard a horrible, hokey rendition of “You Light Up My Life,” in my ear. Fuck me! – the card came with a song. When I bought it, I was so rushed that I forgot to write a message; I didn’t know about the song. Since I’m a sucker for Debby Boone (plugging my ears whenever I’ve heard her muzak), I felt ripped off and pissed off.

While I’m pleased that mom enjoyed the card, I’m irritated – too. I should’ve followed my instincts and bought her a lesbian-oriented card. The one of two naked bubbes patting each other on the tusch – would’ve made her plotz!

~ by kissandkvell on May 11, 2009.